Camisoles, Corduroy, and Lip Balm
by imahistorian
Summary: It's funny what you can learn doing a woman's laundry for a month. Deeks POV, a series of 10 drabbles post 3x06 "Lone Wolf."
1. Camisole

**A/N: **I blame this entirely on **MioneAlterEgo **(who was also so wonderful to beta this and has been all around fantastically supportive). And listening to "Faster" by Matt Nathanson on repeat for the last four days. I've been struggling with some writer's block on my other story and she suggested I try writing some short drabbles to get the ideas flowing. The end of last week's episode was just too tempting. That turned into ten words, ten things Deeks might either come across in Kensi's laundry or in the pockets of her clothes. I purposefully kept these short and decided to challenge myself by writing first person from Deeks' POV, something I've never done. These are fairly tame, mostly just suggestive, hence the "T" rating. At this point I'll probably post one a day until all ten are done. I hope you enjoy! And I'd love to hear what you think :)

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><p>At first I had mixed feelings about being Kensi's indentured laundry servant. I'm a guy, so doing laundry isn't really at the top of my Favorite Pastimes List. It's down there somewhere with doing dishes and filling out my timesheet. It's also why most of my clothes don't require much care beyond the simple wash and dry. And truthfully, one of the perks of becoming an undercover cop was not having to wear a uniform on the streets while patrolling or a suit and tie as a detective in the office.<p>

Working where we do and seeing what she wears everyday I figured Kensi for a pretty casual straightforward dresser. But when I decided to go along with Kensi's "condition" that I do her laundry for a month in exchange for the pleasure of her company for an evening I'm pretty sure she thought I wouldn't follow through.

Which is why when she showed up that Friday morning after the Stephanie Walters case with a bag full of dirty clothes and a smirk on her face I just grinned and promised to have her clean clothes back to her by Monday. I like to keep my partner on her toes. She tried to cover up the startled blink of her eyes by launching into five minutes worth of instructions about how to handle her clothing but I stopped listening sometime after her water temperature demands. I'm not an idiot, I can read the tags on clothes, even if Kensi's clothes apparently have very high standards.

I tried not to be disappointed when a close inspection of Kensi's clothes confirmed that she had indeed left her _innerwear_ out of the bag. My disappointment was quickly turned around as I separated the whites from the colors and the slightly silky softness of a white camisole slid across my fingers.

I don't think most women realize this, but camisoles are better than tank tops and almost as good as a bra. Seeing them on a woman, I mean. They're stretchy, sometimes lacy, and usually have some kind of smooth fabric blend that hugs in all the right places and is almost as soft as skin to the touch.

Kensi usually wears tank tops when she layers her shirts. And those are always nice to catch glimpses of. But camisoles aren't usually meant to be seen under whatever layer they're under. I held it up by the thin straps and imagined those straps on her shoulders, stretched tightly across the defined jut of her collarbone and over her shoulder blade. And I could almost see the taut fabric over her stomach and back, the indent of her spine hollowing the fabric in on her back.

Thinking I'd probably never see her in just that camisole I locked that visualization into the vault of my imagination and continued with Kensi's laundry. Imagine my surprise when one day the next week I went looking for Kensi in the gym and passing near the changing rooms I found her exiting while pulling a long sleeve shirt over that same camisole. And it was both satisfying and aggravating to realize that my imagination still isn't as good as the real thing.

And the rest of the day all I could imagine was what that smooth and silky fabric would feel like over her warmed skin.

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><p><strong>Next: <strong>Lip Balm


	2. Lip Balm

**A/N: **Wow! What an incredibly nice response to something so little and short. Thanks for reviewing, here's the next in the series!

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><p>I was emptying the pockets of one of Kensi's pairs of jeans when my fingers closed around a cylindrical tube. Pulling it out and expecting your typical tube of utilitarian Chapstick, I was surprised to see the red and blue tube of Blistex Raspberry Lemonade lip balm.<p>

Kensi doesn't wear lipstick on a day-to-day basis. For undercover operations when it's required she wears makeup that heightens her already stunning features. I've finally gotten used to seeing her dressed up, hair swept up, makeup brightening her already sparkling eyes and enhancing her smooth skin. I think I covered it well that first case we worked together but she literally took my breath away when she walked in that club with Callen.

That said, knowing how beautiful she is without the makeup it almost seems a shame to add layers of chemicals and color. Pure, unadulterated Kensi is more than enough for me.

The lip balm doesn't surprise me though. Los Angeles was a desert over a hundred years ago and no matter how much water we divert from the Colorado River that's just camouflaging the fact that it's still a dry climate wishing it were a tropical paradise.

It was the flavor that surprised me. I could see Kensi perhaps going for the plain moisturizing lip balm, or maybe the cherry variety. But Raspberry Lemonade is an interesting mix of sweet and sour. Unable to resist, I pulled off the cap and smelled the lip balm, the scent mildly lemon and with a touch of sweet.

I immediately wished I could smell the scent on her lips, be close enough to touch her mouth with mine and feel the smooth slide of the lip balm pressed between our lips.

Shaking my head and thinking I'd have to give Kensi hell about leaving things in her pockets that can mess up her laundry, I put the lip balm aside. Monday morning when I collected her bag of clean clothes I almost missed the lip balm, but seeing it on the table I pocketed it on my way out the door.

When I arrived at OSP and before Kensi could even demand her bag of laundry she practically pounced on me, almost desperately asking if I found her Blistex in her jeans pocket. I feigned ignorance for a moment but realized my mistake when her eyes narrowed and she grabbed my bag to unsuccessfully search through.

Kensi quickly turned her attention to me and if she hadn't been so focused on finding her lip balm she might have noticed my visible reaction to her hands sliding into my pants pockets.

But she wasn't able to contain her relieved smile when she found the lip balm in my front right pocket, along with my car keys. The car keys she tossed back to me, the lip balm she immediately layered on her lips, giving me a satisfied smile.

Every once in awhile I catch a whiff of that scent, Raspberry Lemonade, and I can't help but think that tart smell fits Kensi perfectly.

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><p><strong>Next: <strong>Corduroy Pants


	3. Corduroy Pants

**A/N: **You guys are so awesome and supportive for reading and reviewing! I'm glad this story has been so nicely received, I had a lot of fun writing it! Thanks for the reviews, here's the next installment: Corduroy Pants.

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><p>Doing Kensi's laundry for her has enlightened me about what kinds of clothes she likes. Mostly she wears jeans, shirts made of some kind of cotton blend and worn in layers upon layers that she can peel off or add on as the situation or weather dictates. And a few weeks into our "agreement" I was kind of amused to realize I could recall when she'd worn just about everything in the bag of laundry she handed over that Friday afternoon.<p>

I tried not to think about how my manhood might be on the line considering I didn't even have to look at some of the tags on Kensi's clothes because I remembered how they were supposed to be washed. But when I pulled out a pair of corduroy pants, the first time I'd washed this item of clothing, I couldn't help but grin at the memory they recalled.

The weather in Los Angeles had been a colder that week, we were on a stakeout in the car without heat and Kensi said the corduroy kept her warmer. I didn't argue, just admired the way the twisted fiber of the woven fabric changed color as she brushed her hands back and forth over her thighs. The corduroy was a green hue, turned darkly emerald as she ran a hand towards her knee and a paler shade that reminded me of the juniper trees by the ocean as her hand smoothed back towards her hip.

Thankfully we were in Santa Monica near the pier with plenty of food options nearby. While I stayed behind to watch our suspect Kensi went to a nearby vendor for lunch. I shouldn't have been surprised that it was at that moment our suspect went on the move, heading down the street in Kensi's direction.

I exited the car and walked swiftly towards Kensi where she stood in line, paying for the sandwiches and water. I kept our suspect in sight, watching as he paused to stand in line behind Kensi. Coming up behind her I gained a new appreciation for corduroy and how the fabric looked soft to the touch and the light and shadows made the color change as she moved, shifting from one foot to the other. The pants were styled like jeans and fit her like a glove, stretched down her long legs to the creases in the fabric behind her knees and all the way to where the hemline flared a little to brush against the sidewalk.

Thinking quickly, I stepped up behind Kensi, running a hand possessively down her back and over her backside, the velvet finish of the corduroy softly ridged under my fingers and palm. Kensi managed to hide the slight stiffening of her spine as she quickly realized it was me and not some lecherous guy she needed to flatten on the pavement for taking liberties.

Knowing I would probably pay for it later, I slipped my hand into her back pocket, effectively steering her away from the vendor and away from our suspect. Her arched eyebrow might have made me remove my hand except I was enjoying the feel of the soft corduroy stretched tightly over her rear and under my palm.

We returned to the car in order to follow our suspect as he got in his car and left the area and I reluctantly pulled my hand out of her pocket but left it resting low on her hip until well after anyone watching would notice. Kensi swatted my hand away but there was no real fire behind her anger. And as I turned the corduroy pants inside out to wash them, although the fabric was the same, somehow the feel was no where near as memorable.

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><p><strong>Next: <strong>Fuzzy Socks


	4. Fuzzy Socks

**A/N: **This chapter may be so fluffy and sweet you could get a cavity. You have been warned! All the supportive reviews have been lovely to see, thank you! And now: **Fuzzy Socks**.

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><p>At first I was puzzled by the thick, fuzzy socks in Kensi's bag of laundry. Almost every day I see her she's wearing leather boots that leave no room for these socks that are petal pink and remind me of cotton candy. Thinking I'd have to tease her about their girly softness later I tossed them in the dryer and left for a late morning surf.<p>

By mid afternoon I pulled Kensi's clothing from the dryer and realized I'd committed a major fabric care fail by the tufts of pink fluff mixed in with her pants and shirts. Whatever those fuzzy socks were made of did not agree with the heat and tumble of the dryer.

Already imagining Kensi's scary fury, I folded the rest of her clothing, putting it in the bag and heading for the nearest clothing department store. Probably because I looked lost and desperate a saleswoman in the socks section of the store (temptingly located next to the lingerie section and reminding me of all the clothing of Kensi's I was _not_ being allowed to see and handle) took pity on me. She mentioned something about chenille and line drying but all I wanted was replacement socks. Finally I found similar pink socks as the ones my dryer destroyed and seeing blue and purple pairs I bought those too.

Sunday afternoon I decided to stop by Kensi's and drop off her laundry. My knock on her door went unanswered for a few minutes and I was just getting worried when she opened the door, eyes tired and bloodshot, shivering under a blanket she'd wrapped around her shoulders and sniffling from a cold.

Immediately taking control I guided her back to the couch, covered her up and found one of those horrible reality shows she likes to watch having an all day marathon. Thirty minutes later I brought her soup and crackers from the kitchen and cajoled her into eating.

Kensi's grateful smile and the soft appreciation in her eyes was enough to make me never want to leave. She was more alert after eating and I sat on the couch next to her feet as she was lying on her side. As she made fun of the judging and I offered my incredibly insightful male perspective at completely inappropriate moments her feet burrowed a little under my thigh between my leg and the couch cushion.

Casually, I reached down and pulled her feet into my lap, realizing as she rubbed her feet together the reason she likes those fuzzy socks is because they keep her feet warm. Reaching for her laundry bag on the floor I pulled out a pair of the newly purchased socks and tugged them on over her bare feet.

I kept Kensi's feet in my lap, resting my hand on her ankle and letting my fingers glide over the delicate bones I could still feel through the layer of fabric. When I dared to look over at Kensi she stared at me with a mixture of surprise and befuddlement, clearly realizing the socks are new. Her scrutiny made me oddly uncomfortable and feeling a little transparent so I made some joke about goblins in the dryer. Kensi let me off easy, keeping silent and relaxing against me. And if she noticed as my fingers stroked up and down her ankles over the soft and fuzzy fabric she didn't let on.

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><p><strong>Next: <strong>Phone Number


	5. Phone Number

**A/N: **Halfway done! I had a special kind of fun with this part. Your reviews mean a lot, so thank you for taking the time to give them. The question came up about the chronology of this little series. The only fixed in place chapters are the first and last, all the others could take place at pretty much anytime between the beginning and end. And some of these might overlap and happen the same week, since there will be ten total and this really only covers in real time a month. And now: **Phone Number**.

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><p>It was just a scrap of trash in her pocket at first. I was emptying the contents of Kensi's canvas jacket when I pulled out a piece of torn paper. I didn't even bother to hide my curiosity as I unfolded the paper, finding a name and part of a phone number. The number doesn't matter but the name does.<p>

Daniel.

The flare of something possessive and fearful in my chest surprised me before I really thought to react. Who the hell is Daniel and why did he give Kensi his phone number?

I thought back to the last time I remembered her wearing the jacket, three days earlier. We'd had a case in Hollywood and had questioned a number of witnesses to a hit and run of a Navy lieutenant. Kensi and I had worked side-by-side through the half dozen witnesses, eventually getting a lead we followed up on after leaving the scene.

I didn't remember Kensi making any kind of particular connection with any guy that day. And my radar for that kind of thing when it happens and when it comes to my partner is sensitive as though hers is the only frequency I can hear.

I was still pondering what I must have missed when a second slip of paper fell from Kensi's jacket pocket. This time the number mattered even less but the remaining letters caused my memory to engage.

le. Danielle.

The phone number belonged to a very friendly, very flirty nanny I'd interviewed at the scene of the hit and run. I can't deny I flirt almost as easy as breathing. Sometimes I'm actually interested, sometimes it helps me get information, sometimes it's harmless and good-natured fun. And sometimes I do it because it annoys my partner, makes her act territorial, she gets handsy with me and there's a part of me that enjoys that. I don't have to pretend that I might be something more to her than a partner and a friend when her strong fingers encircle my arm and she yanks me away from a pretty woman she has no reason to feel threatened by.

I vaguely remembered Danielle the Nanny handing me her phone number that afternoon. I think I shoved it in my jacket pocket, which means that at some point that day without me realizing it Kensi's sneaky hand found its way into my pocket and she retrieved the number.

The fact that she felt compelled to pickpocket me for a woman's phone number, one I wasn't even planning to call, is curious by itself. But what I found even more interesting was that she tore the piece of paper in half. She could have thrown it away or crumpled it into a ball.

But tearing the number in half spoke to a fierce possessiveness that made me smile. And thinking about my near violent response when I thought the number might have come from some guy wanting to ask her out I wondered if maybe we weren't closer to being on the same page than either of us realized.

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><p><strong>Next: <strong>Jeans


	6. Jeans

**A/N:** Thanks again for the reviews, alerts and favorites. I'm pleased that people are enjoying this! Thanks for taking the time to read and review. Hope you like the latest: **Jeans**.

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><p>It really hasn't surprised me that Kensi's wardrobe consisted mostly of jeans. Based on the past weeks of doing her laundry I figured she must have about a dozen pairs. Some of them are dark blue, some are faded over the knees and backside, she even has black and white pairs. But my favorite pair of her jeans was a pair that was stonewashed blue over the legs, faded at the knees and stress points, frayed around the boot cut bottom with some worn holes along the sides and light brown stitching on the back pockets.<p>

It was the weekend after she last wore this pair and I remembered the occasion with a fond smile. The fabric was buttery soft under my fingers, worn from probably hundreds of washings. The belt loops are stretched and worn because this pair of jeans was usually a little looser on Kensi's hips and I've noticed she wears a wide belt with them. There's no way I would ever complain about the tighter jeans she wears, sometimes I've walked just a few steps behind her so I can admire the sway of her hips. But the casual fit of these jeans somehow draws my eyes more.

We'd been assigned the unusual task of protecting the teenage daughter of a Naval commander who was targeted by foreign intelligence. The commander was a stubborn man and refused to force his daughter into protective custody while NCIS tracked down the bad guys. So it fell to us to keep an eye on her when she decided to go with friends to the Happiest Place on Earth. I don't think I've ever seen Kensi dread an assignment more.

Me, I love Disneyland. When I was a kid we could never afford to go. And maybe it's because there are all these families there and people are having fun. I didn't have that growing up but seeing it makes me hope one day I might. Kensi wouldn't explain her aversion but I could tell she didn't like being there. Not at first. It took some time, and some serious work on my part to make her laugh, but somewhere between Space Mountain and Big Thunder Mountain Railroad she finally began to relax. We dutifully followed our assignment from ride to ride. Trying to blend in, and curious enough to try my luck, I slung my arm around Kensi's shoulders, bringing her hip to bump against mine. She surprised me when her arm went around my waist and her fingers hooked around the belt loop at my side.

The real surprise came when we got on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. It's not exactly a roller coaster but the one unexpected drop had Kensi's hand reactively gripping my knee. Without really thinking I'd dropped my hand to her leg and slid it inward, my fingers reaching the inseam of her jeans along her thigh as I applied gentle and soothing pressure along the soft denim. My hand wasn't at an indecent location but definitely a familiar one. Kensi's hand left my leg and I'd been sure she was going to shove my hand away. Instead, her fingers encircled my forearm, holding me in place.

Neither of us mentioned it after we got off the ride. And shortly after that Callen called and told us they'd made an arrest and we were free for the rest of the day. By then it was late in the day and even though Kensi rolled her eyes, I managed to convince her to stay for the fireworks. A bribe of ice cream might have had something to do with it. I kept my eyes on her, watching the reflected green, gold and pink lights in the sky play across her face and in her dark eyes. And when she leaned into me as my hand went around her waist, fingers ghosting over the soft fabric at her hip, finding the worn spots and holes of her jeans exactly where my memory told me they were, I smiled and turned my eyes back to the sky.

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><p><strong>Next: <strong>Dog Biscuit


	7. Dog Biscuit

**A/N: **I sort of feel like a broken record giving thanks for the alerts, favorites and reviews. But really, it means a lot that so many of you take the time to review and that you're continually interested. So once again: thank you! **Now: **Dog Biscuit. Because Monty HAD to make an appearance :)

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><p>I've found a lot of unexpected things in Kensi's pockets since I started doing her laundry. I was checking the pockets of a gray hooded sweatshirt when I encountered what felt like sand. Pulling out what seemed like a small rock, upon closer inspection I realized was actually part of a dog biscuit. I remembered the sweatshirt from a few evenings ago.<p>

It had been a hard case that day. A Marine had died and his wife and teenage daughter had been hit hard. I didn't know the exact reasons why, but Kensi took the case particularly personal. Although we found out the Marine's death had been accidental, Kensi had seemed unable to shake whatever was bothering her. I knew she would just go home and quietly stew over the case so I tried to talk her into doing something with me after work.

She tried to push me away, even snapped at me to leave her alone. But I did what I do best and pushed and needled until I convinced her to come with Monty and me to the beach to enjoy the sunset. The waves were decent and despite all my insistence that she join me I thought Kensi could still use some time alone. That way she could unwind and I could keep an eye on her from a distance. I left her on the beach as I jogged out to surf, satisfied that at least Kensi was out enjoying the evening with Monty by her side.

Monty has been practically in love with Kensi since the moment he met her. Although he listens to my commands, he follows Kensi around like she's his mama duck and he's a duckling. When she looks at him his tail wags like he's trying to shake it off. When she crouches down to pet him he wiggles around and tries to get as close as he can to her. And he tries to give her kisses whenever he possibly can.

So it didn't surprise me that Monty stayed with Kensi on the beach while I went out to surf. I spent some time out on the waves, looking back every once in awhile. I watched as Kensi threw a ball and Monty gleefully chased after it. I watched him chase her, jumping at her knees and trying to lick her hands. Even from a distance of hundreds of feet I wondered if it was her laughter and his barking I heard over the rush of the waves.

Just as it was beginning to get dark I finally trudged back up the sand to find Kensi sitting cross-legged on the sand, Monty's head in her lap. I saw by the slope of her shoulders that she was much more relaxed than she'd been a few hours earlier. And I saw when she sneakily fed Monty a dog biscuit from her pocket.

I grinned and teased her about spoiling my dog and how she was buying his affection. She strenuously objected and I let it go. As we both tried to relax after a difficult day, we watched the sunset quietly, Monty between us. The sky had turned an inky blue when Kensi finally spoke. She told me about her father, about how his death had changed her entire world when she was a teenager. I watched her face in the near darkness, seeing her tears and finally understanding some of the pain she carries.

When I reached over to pull her close she didn't object or push me away. And Monty stared up at Kensi with sympathetic brown eyes. Kensi leaned against me, her head finding the hollow of my shoulder and neck where it fit perfectly. Monty nosed her hand insistently, putting a fond smile on Kensi's face. It has become clear to me that Monty is as much a sucker for brunettes as I am. Or more accurately, we are suckers for a particular brunette.

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><p><strong>Next: <strong>Candy Wrappers


	8. Candy Wrappers

**A/N: **I'm glad an appearance by Monty was so well received. I couldn't help but include him! Thank you again for all the supportive review, alerts and favorites. We're reaching the end of this little experiment. Two more after today. **Now: **Candy Wrappers.

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><p>I knew Kensi had an addiction to junk food. Although she tries to hide it I've found her stashes of candy in her desk drawers and her car. I've even found where she hides candy in my car, which, since I value my own life I've left alone. But the weekend I was doing her laundry and found about a dozen candy wrappers hidden in her jeans and jacket pockets I was a little more confused than usual at her sugar intake.<p>

I thought back to the day she'd been wearing the clothing. It hadn't been one of my more enjoyable days as an LAPD detective. A lead in a drug dealing ring had taken us around to a dealer an alias of mine was familiar with. The alias counted as one of the more despicable skeletons in my closet. Resuming the cover I'd spent a less than enjoyable afternoon reliving the "glory" days I'd spent with my dealer contact as a lowlife drug pusher. All while my partner listened in.

In the end we'd gotten a lead and I'd been able to shed that much loathed identity. I'd been distracted the rest of the day as we'd tracked down the suspect and made an arrest. I'd noticed Kensi had been quiet but the next day things were more or less back to normal. Both of us were good at that. Even when things bothered us we could compartmentalize and move on. The difference came when one of us wouldn't let the other off the hook.

Putting it out of my mind, I hadn't thought much about that day until I found the candy wrappers. Nearly every candy food group was represented. Chocolate, caramel, peanut butter, nuts, nougat, even fruit, which I knew was Kensi's least favorite but would do in a pinch of desperation. There was a rainbow of colors and a truly impressive fistful of calories symbolized. I wondered what had upset Kensi so much.

Monday morning after returning her bag of laundry I asked Kensi what had brought on the gorge fest. Something told me I'd said the wrong thing when Kensi shot me a look that could have made steel melt and she stormed off to the gun range. I wisely decided not to follow and turned to my email.

It wasn't until Sam fixed me with an exasperated look, and Callen gave me a scornful shake of his head that I asked what was up with Kensi. Callen refused to get involved, and turned his attention back to the newspaper. Sam, ever helpful and always willing to point out my mistakes, bluntly informed me that Kensi had spent the whole day I'd been undercover a nervous wreck. She'd aggravated the both of them with her insistence that she should have been in on the undercover with me and that it was an unacceptable risk to send me in on my own. They'd finally placated her with candy, which she'd powered through at a pace almost faster than they could supply it.

With this bit of enlightening information I wandered over to the gun range and watched Kensi for a while as every shot she took was a perfect one. In there she was in control and flawless. Completely unflappable. It occurred to me that out there during my undercover she'd been worried about what she couldn't do to help me. And helplessness was not an acceptable state of being in Kensi's world. I decided to brave her wrath and entered the gun range. When she turned around under my hand on her shoulder I tried not to be startled when her arms went around my waist. She whispered in my ear how worried she'd been and all I could do was hold her tight. The candy showed me how much I meant to her. Her words were what really shook me.

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><p><strong>Next:<strong> T-Shirt


	9. TShirt

**A/N:** The end is near! I'll be sad to have this complete, I enjoyed writing it so much and the reactions from those of you reading have been so wonderful, thank you! One more to go after this one. This was the first item that popped into my head when this story idea came to me. For a writer I think stories are kind of like your children. And I know you should never pick your favorite child. But if I was going to pick my personal favorite from this series, it would be this one. **Now: **T-Shirt.

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><p>My month as Kensi's laundry slave was nearly up when I came across an item of clothing I hadn't seen before. I knew instantly that it didn't belong to her. Because it belonged to me.<p>

The t-shirt used to be a dark navy blue but had long since faded to a worn and soft cloudy blue. Across the front in white relief were block letters spelling "LAPD" and directly under was the Centurion seal bearing the image of the Los Angeles City Hall. In my early training days with the LAPD and as a beat cop I acquired a lot of department clothing. I don't wear it much anymore since keeping my identity a secret became a part of everyday life as an undercover cop and NCIS liaison. Flipping the shirt over I saw "DEEKS" written in large letters over the back and my badge number below my name.

I frowned and it took me a minute but I eventually remembered an afternoon a couple of months back when Kensi got this shirt. It had been after lunch during a slow week at the office. Paperwork can fill up days and days worth of time after a complicated case. Kensi had taken up Callen's challenge of a game of Wastebasket Horse and the competition had quickly turned furious. Sam could barely contain his amused smile and I didn't even bother to try and hide my grin as Callen and Kensi bickered about technicalities like siblings.

Neither seemed to notice as Eric rushed down the stairs, his tablet in one hand and a Red Bull in the other. Eric was oblivious to traffic in his way and when Kensi unexpectedly backed into him the contents of his mostly full energy drink spilled down her back. Kensi discovered she didn't have an extra shirt in her workout bag so I'd dug in my locker and found my LAPD t-shirt. She'd accepted the shirt with a soft smile I was unable to define and had pointedly ignored the ribbing she got from Callen and Sam.

Some guys get excited when their girl wears their clothes. Dress shirts, t-shirts, boxers; for some men seeing women wear their clothes really turns them on. Personally, I'd rather see a woman without my clothes (or hers) on so I'd never really thought much about it before. And Kensi's not my girl. We're partners and friends and sometimes we flirt right at that line of something more. So I'd been surprised at the breathless tug in my chest when I saw her wearing my shirt, my name branded across her back.

The rest of that afternoon I'd been preoccupied by Kensi. It seemed like every time she got up to take some paperwork to Hetty my eyes were drawn to her back, to my name peeking out underneath the brown waves of her hair as she shifted and moved. And at one point she'd been distractedly toying with the collar of the shirt, rubbing between her thumb and forefinger the fabric I knew was cottony soft.

After that day I'd put the image out of my mind. I'd forgotten to ask for the shirt back but clearly Kensi had held on to it. And it had been several months since that day. She'd held on to and she'd worn it. Maybe she'd even worn it multiple times. And knowing her as I do, I had a feeling the shirt wasn't supposed to be in her laundry for me to see. There's no way she would want me to know she still had it.

As I folded her clean clothes to put back in her bag I came across the shirt again and considered keeping it. But the thought that she might wear it, my name marking her, even if I never saw her wearing it, had me folding the t-shirt and putting it back in her bag on the top of her clothes.

That Monday morning when I returned Kensi's laundry to her I gave her a silent smile before I turned to my desk. And I kept my attention on her out of the corner of my eye as she tried to surreptitiously look inside the bag. I didn't imagine the released tension of her shoulders or the soft smile that lifted her lips as she saw my t-shirt inside the bag. I knew then that I'd been correct in thinking it was right where it belonged.

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><p><strong>Next (and last): <strong>Lacy Bra


	10. Lacy Bra

**A/N: **The last part! A very huge and heartfelt thank you to everyone who read, commented, favorited and/or alerted! Thank you once again to **MioneAlterEgo** for betaing for me and urging me on. And **SunnyCitrus10** gets the prize for calling this last chapter's subject. It's perhaps a little predictable but I don't think it will disappoint in the end :) On your way out if you happen to leave a review, I'd be curious to know which chapter was your favorite. Just a little informal poll I decided to do. Thanks for reading! **Now: **Lacy Bra.

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><p>I wasn't quite sure what to think when I came across the very lacy, very purple bra in Kensi's laundry. It was the last weekend of doing her laundry and up until that point she'd been militantly disciplined about keeping her unmentionables from the dirty clothes she gave me to clean.<p>

But the bra wasn't hidden inside a shirt, bunched up with a pair of pants or somehow mistakenly mixed in with the rest of her clothing. In fact, its placement near the top of the pile suggested to me that Kensi had purposefully added it to the bag.

I gingerly picked it up by the right shoulder strap, completely confused by what this scrap of lace and sheer fabric meant. The color was a rich purple that I could easily imagine contrasting beautifully against her tanned skin. And I rubbed the strap between my fingers, picturing her dark hair spilling over her shoulders where the strap would normally be.

Despite the color and lace, it was a pretty functional bra. I'd been pretty sure that Kensi didn't need any added padding or enhancement to her lingerie and seeing this garment up close confirmed that. And I couldn't help it, I checked the tag for the measurements. It's a little piece of information that I certainly don't need but I filed it away in my memory all the same.

I ran a finger along the lacy edge and considered that while I might never get to see Kensi in this piece of clothing, getting to feel it and imagine her in it is a close, albeit ultimately unsatisfying, replacement. I had a brief moment of panic when I realized I had no clue how to wash a woman's bra but some quick Googling solved that problem.

Upon returning her bag of freshly cleaned laundry, purple lacy bra included, I couldn't help but mention casually that she might have left something in the bag that she hadn't intended to. Kensi's firm answer that everything in the bag had been meant for washing confused me almost as much as her slight smirk until Hetty called us over to wardrobe to get dressed up for an undercover operation.

I don't mind getting dressed up in a tux every once in awhile. Especially if it means I get to have Kensi on my arm looking stunning in that effortlessly graceful way of hers. For this undercover we're a couple on a date, trailing our suspect at a charity benefit. When he moved off from the crowd to complete a drop down a secluded hallway we had to find a shadowy corner to hide in a hurry.

Considering how often we've done the couple routine it's kind of surprising that we haven't kissed. Probably if there were fewer feelings there it would have happened a long time ago and neither of us would be fazed by the possibility. But enough time has passed and there _are_ enough feelings between us that the possibility of kissing, even for an undercover operation, is like a loaded gun during a game of Russian Roulette-full of chance and the potential to be explosive and lead to either a lot of relief or a lot of hurt.

So I was a little surprised when Kensi pulled me close in the dark, her back hitting the wall behind her and bringing me hard up against her body. Her hands at my neck were firm and held me close but it was her lips, warm against my throat, that really had my pulse jumping.

The undercover assignment was a forgotten memory when her lips moved up my neck, grazing my Adam's apple, the line of my jaw, and finally settled at the corner of my mouth. I couldn't hold back my response any longer and I turned my head slightly to press my lips against hers.

After that it was a flurry of bruising kisses, deep breaths, and her sigh in my ear that only made me crazy in my need to get closer. But it was as I kissed a path down her neck to her shoulder and tugged the strap of her gown aside that I recognized the stretchy purple fabric of the bra she was wearing.

I lifted my head and quirked an eyebrow up. "Is this some kind of signal?"

Kensi's low and breathless growl and her firm grip around my waist clued me in. "I thought you would have been smart enough to figure that out doing my laundry last weekend."

I laughed then, shaking my head in disbelief at my luck as Kensi pulled me back towards her. Her lips were warm and her breath hot as she leaned in closer once again. Using strength of resistance I didn't even know I possessed, I pulled back a breath, and fixed Kensi with a suspicious gaze.

"You're not just using me for my laundry skills, are you?"

Kensi's laughter was unbidden and unforced. And as her hand stroked the side of my face she pressed her cheek to mine, her lips right by my ear.

"No, not _just_ your laundry skills."

I grinned then, pulling back to meet her eyes before I leaned in again to kiss her.

It's funny what you can learn doing a woman's laundry for a month.

END


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